Handicrafts
by Zola1
Summary: Originally written for the Story-A-Day thread and published on Save Big O. I love getting reviews!


Roger looked over to his companion with a smile. There was something very pleasant about sitting near the fire on a chilly winter evening with a hot toddy and an industrious android who wasn't playing a piano. "Knit one, purl two, drop three," he offered by way of conversation.

"I'm past that stage now," she said, the knitting needles moving steadily in her small hands.

"What are you making?" he inquired.

"It's one of a pair of mittens," she held up the newly begun item for his inspection. "Instro had mentioned to me that the church where he plays was having a drive to provide local poor children with hats and mittens. This will be my fifth set. I want to do ten all together."

"They seem awfully small," he said.

"Not everyone needs their gloves in extra-large, Roger Smith," she said mildly, going back to her work. "These are for a little girl named Rosie, she is five. She loves blue, so I found this yarn. Do you think she'd like a scarf, too?"

"I'm sure she would," Roger said. "Will you have enough time?"

"I should," she said. "I'm much faster now than I was at the beginning."

"That's true," he said as he watched the mitten grow steadily under her quick hands. "I think it's a very worthwhile endeavor."

* * *

A week later, Roger was already regretting his words. Dorothy had completed her goal of ten sets of hats, mittens, and scarves, and now knitted items were turning up all over the mansion.

This, though... this was the last straw. "R. Dorothy Wayneright!" he bellowed.

"Yes, Roger?" she appeared at his bedroom door.

"What is _this_?" he demanded, holding out the offending item.

"It's a toilet-paper cover," she said as if it were obvious. "It lets you keep a spare roll in the bathroom while protecting it from dust and humidity."

"This is ridiculous," he said. "My home is starting to look like a church bazaar! I forbid you to knit anything else."

"But... Roger..." she looked at him, stricken.

"I mean it," he said. "No more knitting!"

* * *

That night, he was surprised to see the familiar basket of yarn at her feet. "I thought I said no more knitting," he said.

"This isn't knitting," she informed him coldly. "I am now learning to crochet."

"Knit, crochet... what's the difference?" he made a gesture of disgust.

"Crocheting uses a single hooked needle, whereas knitting uses two pointed ones," she said. "Clearly, they are not the same."

He didn't have the energy to argue about it tonight. Suddenly the evening had lost its savor, and he drained the last of his drink and went off to bed, muttering to himself about literalists.

* * *

In a month, he had reached the breaking point. Apparently a much finer thread could be used when crocheting, and it seemed that every open surface in the house had sprouted a doily or runner or...

"Norman!" he shouted in outrage.

"Sir?" the butler came running.

"Exactly what are _these_?" Roger demanded, pointing to the lacy bits of crochet adorning the backs of the couches in his solarium.

"I believe they're called antimacassars, sir," Norman replied. "They're intended to protect the material from oils or pomades on the hair."

"My hair is _never_ greasy," Roger said in outrage. "I only use enough pomade to keep it neat!"

The butler wisely remained silent on that topic. "Shall I remove them, sir?" he asked.

"Immediately! Get rid of the rest of it, too," he said. "The place is starting to look like a bordello with all this lace! Next thing you know, she'll be wanting to crochet a cover to keep the dust off of Big O!"

Norman's lips twitched but he managed to hide his mirth. "With your permission, sir," he said, "I'd very much like to keep the sweater Miss Dorothy made for me."

"She made you a sweater?" Roger asked with surprise.

"Why, yes, sir," the butler replied. "For my birthday."

"Of course you can," Roger said, ashamed that he had forgotten about it. "I only meant all these... decorations."

"You know, sir, a few are rather nice," Norman ventured, seizing the opportunity his employer's guilt had just handed him. "It's the excess that's causing the problem."

"What do you mean?" Roger asked.

"Miss Dorothy has become quite skilled," Norman said. "Did you realize the new dining room tablecloth was her work? She did all the edging herself."

Roger had to admit that it had been beautifully done. It was decorative, but the pattern was spare, geometric, and pleasing to the eye.

"I'll leave it up to you, then," he conceded. "But please, Norman, get that... that... whatever-you-call-it off the mantel!" He pointed to the frothy confection of lace adorning the fireplace.

"Right away, sir," Norman said.

* * *

"It's not fair, Pero," Roger was coming down the hall with the intent of speaking to Dorothy about the removal of her interior decorating when he heard her voice coming through the partially open bedroom door. "He won't let me play the piano, won't let me knit, won't let me crochet... I can't stand just sitting there staring at the wall."

Pero? The cat was long gone. Had she somehow found herself another? No, that was impossible. A playful kitten couldn't be hidden indefinitely.

"I can understand that Roger's tired and doesn't want to make conversation," she continued. "He's been talking to people all day, of course he wants a little peace and quiet. But then he and Norman go to bed, and there's nothing to do until the morning, and it's a little... lonely."

Dorothy? Lonely? He knew she only needed a few hours of rest each night, but he had never given much thought to what she did for the rest of it.

"It's boring, too," she said. "Almost anything I want to do would wake them up, and both of them need their sleep. I liked having projects to work on-it gave me something to do that wouldn't bother anyone. Now I'm out of yarn, and Norman won't let me buy any more-he says Roger has forbidden me to bring it into the house." She sighed deeply. "You're right, it isn't fair. It's my allowance, I'm supposed to be able to spend it on what I want to spend it on. What do you think I should do?"

Roger tapped the door lightly and opened it. Dorothy whirled in surprise, hiding something behind her back, but not before he'd seen that she had been cuddling a perfect replica of Pero the cat, lovingly rendered in gray yarn.

All the annoyance he'd been feeling about the whole situation melted away. It was just too darn cute for words. Sometimes he forgot that in many ways, Dorothy was like any young girl. "Perhaps," he said, "we could try to negotiate something."

* * *

Roger gave a happy sigh as he stretched his toes towards the warmth of the fire and pulled the afghan a little more snugly around his shoulders. He had to admit that, in small doses, Dorothy's handicrafts made the mansion a much more comfortable place.

He looked over as she finished the soft piece she'd been playing on the piano. "That was lovely," he said.

"Thank you, Roger," she said, picking up her toy Pero, who had been watching the proceedings from his spot on the piano. She came over and sat down nearby, working on what looked like, if the colors were any indication, a baby blanket.

Despite the rocky start, negotiations had ultimately been successful. Dorothy now played the piano for the first hour or so of the evening, with the only caveat being that she stick to the more soothing pieces in her repertoire.

Afterwards, she would join him, working on one project or another as they chatted about the happenings of the day. Over the course of the last month, she had added basic needlepoint and embroidery to her list of skills, and Roger had to admit that the delicately edged, monogrammed handkerchiefs she had given him for Heaven's Day far surpassed anything he could have purchased for himself.

On Sundays, weather permitting, Norman and Dorothy went down to the stall she rented at the Farmer's Market. Her pieces nearly always sold, and demand for her custom work had grown steadily.

"Roger," she said. "I had a question."

"What is it?" he asked, hoping she wasn't going to drop one of her patented bombshells on him.

"Do you think Big O needs a dust cover?" she asked, jumping up to pound on his back when he choked on his drink.

They compromised on an antimacassar for the command chair.

***FIN***

 _Just a historical note: The antimacassar is now usually only seen in period pieces, but apparently Macassar was a widely-used hair pomade, and an antimacassar was literally just that-a piece of cloth or handwork that was draped over the back of the chair or couch to protect it._


End file.
